It doesn’t matter how long it has been.Most any night, I can pick up my guitarand my fingers will find their way to fretand strings, and my voice meet the melody,so familiar: “People smile and tell meI’m the lucky one . . .”

The picking pattern is muscle memory,which is my working metaphor this evening,twenty-one years on since the first timeI saw you (I had my guitar then, too) andwe just began what has become a lifetimeof love together . . .

So even though we ain’t got money,I am still so in love with you; I’ve learned lovefrom you, with you. The song and danceof togetherness moves my heart in waysas familiar and surprising as an oldfriend of a love song . . .

You’re the girl who holds the world,as you hold my heart, with tenacityand tenderness, the one who is home,who finds me in the morning as we rise(you can sing along) and tells meeverything’s gonna be alright.